A Journeymen's Goodbye
by Wordsmith8
Summary: "I never thought I would get old. Ha! Still, only 35 and my dear Potter tells me I am getting slow!" "But you're feeling alright?" He had paused and turned to look at me, one hand on a bony hip. "You are not so young yourself, Theodore" Boris and Theo catch up over a movie


Boris seized the unopened bag of chips, his hands already cradled protectively around a bottle of vodka, and tore open the cellophane seal with an undignified huff that sent crumbs flying onto the couch.

I couldn't help it, "really?" I said. He made no attempt at a verbal response, but a quirk in his brow and a tilt of his head was enough as if to say, _you can't even dress yourself, Potter. Forget sofa._

He was right, of course— and yet something had made me very protective of my new apartment and everything in it. As much as I had loved the wear and tear of Hobie's shop—the gentle tinkle of the bell over the door, the almost silent rapping of Hobie's mallets in the basement, the ever-constant thrum of life in the house—it was time to move on.

Kitsey, even after our amicable separation, had helped me find it—a tiny bachelor flat not far from the shop that would, 'do well for me until I decided it was time to grow up'. Although we were still friends, my suggestion to break off the engagement had stung her more than I'd anticipated, and though Tom Cable had quickly swung in to whisk her off into the sunset, Kitsey knew as well as I that Mrs. Barbour was not at all pleased about it. I couldn't say I blamed her; Cable? Kitsey could do better.

I bought new furniture, some even from the hidden annals of Hobie's changelings. Though he'd attempted to hide them away ever since my selling frauds, I was able to coax some of the better pieces from the basement and clean them up a bit for my new home. An 18th century mahogany desk inlaid by Hobie's own hands with white pine to cover up cracks, a teetering bookshelf of cherry with a winding burn design running along its shelves as well as a fine table set spliced together with old bits of Hardwood and Tamarack (regarded as a true artwork by myself and the rest of Hobie's friends, though he would never see it as such). The overall effect of the space was that of a confused decorator who had possibly spent most of their time careening about history, collecting bits and bobs for a home so stark and grey it was laughable. I half wondered how the previous tenants would react if they saw the place now without its ikea furniture and takeaway dinner containers.

Ironically, the only thing cheaply made was in fact the couch Boris was earnestly dirtying up. It had belonged to a friends of Pippa—some college kid or other that needed to be rid of it.

And yet, simply because it was a part of the new life I was creating, it was special and somehow worth preserving.

"Boris, seriously" I began, but the sight of him attempting to simultaneously coddle Popper while dipping a hand into the chip bag was too much for me not to crack a smile.

"Aha! Potter you are smiling!" he said, a mouthful of chip spritzing from his lips.

"This is good sign, you are too serious. Also, this band _Aha!_ Is very good. Nice music"

He took another swig of vodka and patted Popper affectionately on the head. Hobie had let me keep the old dog, though he was sad to see him go. 'He's really yours' he had said, 'you came as a pair, it seems a shame to split you two up now'. And so Popchyk had moved with me and seemed content enough to find new places o sleep and watch the daily happenings of the street below. He was slower than before and less energetic, but whenever Boris decided to swing by, he'd suddenly regain some of his youthful spirit (though in hindsight, perhaps it was only because Boris always brought treats).

I glanced over at the pair. Boris was still happily munching, his eyes trained on the tv. I had put on _The Magnificent Seven_ , one of his favourites from back in Vegas and he had gladly hopped into his seat to watch. Though he was facing mostly away from me, from where I sat on the floor I could see the lines of weariness in his features. I had begun to notice them as his visits in town became less frequent and even more rushed than before. He would call me in a flurry, almost like usual—just stepping off a plane from Antwerp, layover in Montreal, another few hours to New York. Stumbling into my apartment in the early hours of the morning, _(Wake up Potter! Was my daughter's birthday yesterday!)_ asking me to drive us up to the Met or down to Million Dollar Coffee House where he somehow knew the owners and their daughter. Though I had since stopped buying pills, I could see Boris was still reaching new highs, and often came in with pupils dilated almost to the edges of his blueish irises. I almost half expected him to offer me a go at his new fix, but somehow he never did.

I asked him about his habit once as we were cleaning up after a dinner of cheap sliders Boris had brought in from some airport or other. He was rinsing a dish over the sink, motions heavy and sluggish. There were bags under his eyes and new age lines around his mouth, but he still smiled in response.

"I never thought I would get old. Ha! Still, only 35 and my dear Potter tells me I am getting slow!"

"But you're feeling alright?"

He had paused and turned to look at me, one hand on a bony hip.

"You are not so young yourself, Theodore"

I dropped the subject and hadn't mentioned his tiredness or sudden uncharacteristic mood swings again.

And so, we'd continued in this way; him coming and going as he pleased, and I worriedly watching him deteriorate before my eyes.

I glanced back at the tv to see Yul Brynner on his horse riding majestically into the desert underscored by Popper's asthmatic breathing. Stealthily as I could as to not disturb the relative silence between us, I snatched the bag of chips out from under Boris' hand and nipped a few into my mouth. A weary chuckle sounded from the couch, and I turned my head to see him grinning lopsidedly at me.

"These chips—" he gestured to me, "this American confectionary—it's worse than smack"

I laughed and shoved a few more into my mouth. His grin grew wider and he gestured to me to hand over the bag.

"Vodka and coke, now that's the way to go" he took another swig and belched loudly, patting his stomach. "You will be addicted forever, but at least not so fat!"

His laugh was hard and cracked and caught in his throat, coming out more like a sharp cackle than his usual jovial chuckle. I tried not to wince at the sound, but his keen eyes caught my gaze darting away.

"You are worried"

"…tell me there's no reason to be first"

He sighed heavily, lurching himself off the couch to get some water and to avoid answering me. I turned back to the tv to see Brynner fighting off enemies he couldn't see.

"Boris" I said. I could almost sense his sudden terseness at the use of his name. It was as if something dangerously emotional in my voice made him switch off and turn away. Clambering onto the couch, I looked over into the kitchen and steadily caught his eye. There was something foreign in his face—a ginger quirk in his mouth I was unfamiliar with.

Returning with his drink, Boris sprawled himself out on the floor as we'd both done as boys. Turning around to look at me, he jerked his head—an ancient invitation to join him. Side by side, we lay on our stomachs in front of Yul and his cowboys. We were closer than we'd been in a while and I could feel the weight of his arm through my shirt, smell his cologne that barely masked a sickly clinical smell that hung about his clothes.

"Potter" he began. I felt him take a deep breath; sensed his eyes averting from the tv to settle on something in the room. I waited patiently for him to continue.

"I'm going to Germany for a while" he said.

"family getaway?" I joked. He chuckled and fiddled with his hands.

"It will be a longer stay than usual, maybe a couple of months. Possibly a year"

Even from years of reading his moods, I couldn't tell what was on his mind. I looked over at him to find his gaze riveted to the floor.

He took a breath, "I just wanted you to know." There was a completeness in the way he said it, as if that was as much information as I was going to get. I never asked where Boris went on his 'holidays' nor what he really did for a living. It was anybody's guess, and really not my place to enquire.

"Ok," I said. "Thanks for letting me know"

The silence that followed was long and awkward. Popper had gone to sleep on the couch behind us, and the ending theme of the movie was playing. I was reminded all of a sudden how quiet it truly was without Boris around.

"Well, Potter. I'd better get going; fish to fry and all that" he said, rising. I heard him grab his things and his coat, heard the tap of his shoes on the tiles in the foyer. I stayed where I was, never really knowing what to do with myself as he was leaving.

"I'll see you in a couple months, Theo"

The door opened, and the latch snapped back into place behind him. I swear I could hear his footfalls on the carpet down the hall, but it might have been the blood pumping in my ears. Slowly, I took in the sudden silence of the place and the space Boris had filled. His leaving always seemed to put me in a mood and made me all too aware of my isolation, because although he had never really bothered to say a proper goodbye, I suspect it's because somehow, he knew he would always be coming back.


End file.
